To Change The Past
by BlueSkies23
Summary: John, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson travel back to the past and meet Sherlock and Mycroft as children. Little do they know, someone else has traveled back with them, and he's going to try to stop Sherlock for good. Rated T for later chapters. (Warning: contains death) Kid!Sherlock. Kid!Mycroft
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! Sorry if this seems a bit rushed, I'm writing this at night ;) Please enjoy**

**Review are welcomed **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock (unfortunately)**

John groaned, massaging the back of his head gently. He opened his eyes slowly, looking around to see Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson crowding around him. "You alright, mate?" Donovan whispered, holding onto his hand.

John nodded, beginning to stand up. "Yeah, yeah…'m fine. What happened?" He muttered, his words slurring together slightly as he fought off unconsciousness.

"We're not sure, exactly," Lestrade explained. "Sherlock went out to get something, and right after he left, there was this light, and then…we woke up here."

"D'ya think he's drugged us or something? Making us part of his experiments, or-" Donovan started, but John quickly cut her off.

"No, no, Sherlock didn't do this. Definitely not. How could he, anyway? He went to the loo, I saw him go in." John argued, his headache getting worse every moment.

"So…where are we?" Anderson whispered after a moment of silence. "We're certainly not at the station."

For the first time, John examined his surroundings. They seemed to be in a basement of some sort, the walls made of concrete. The room was pitch-black, but there was a circle of light around them due to Donovan's flashlight. But John could see it growing dimmer by the second, so the sooner they got out of there and into a lighted area, the better.

Their calm was interrupted by a stream of light, and several thumping noises as someone walked down what they could now see were stairs by the other end of the room. The person seemed to be in a hurry, but as John inspected the shadow further, they seemed to be upset. A very childish rampage, he supposed.

The shadow flicked the lights, and they could see him in full detail. It was a small boy, maybe six or seven. He had curly brown hair and blue-green eyes, his face narrow, but still outlined with traces of baby fat. His eyes widened, and he backed into the wall, breathing heavily. "W-who are you?" he spoke softly.

"We're part of the police, we ended up here by mistake." Lestrade murmured, crouching down to meet the boy's eyes. He walked over to him, but the boy stood stock still in his corner, not making a move toward him.

"Where are your badges?" The boy asked warily, pushing his head against the wall as though to get as far away from Lestrade as he could.

"Right here, see?" Lestrade answered, pulling out his badge. He held it out to the boy, and he took his gently in his hands, examining it.

"Your friends, have they been working as long as you?" The boy asked softly, handing the badge back to Lestrade.

He froze, noting the boy had a tone similar to someone he knew. But that was completely impossible…completely impossible…

"What do you mean?" Lestrade murmured, stepping closer to the boy as though to examine him. His eyes…they were the same color as…

"Judging by your badge, you've been working for a large amount of time as a detective inspector. It's at least fifteen years old, I'd say. I reckon you've been working even longer than that. You work hard to polish it every now and then, I can see by the outer cover, but there are some deep scratches that'll never fade on there. So, your friends, have they been on the job as long as you?" The boy explained, repeating his question at the end.

Lestrade stood up, sure now that this boy was definitely the same person. But that was impossible…he was much too young, the man he thought he was must have been in his late twenties at least!

"Do I have to repeat the question?" The boy murmured warily. "I can easily call my brother down here. He can take care of you."

"How old is he, your brother?" John asked, having the same assumption as Lestrade.

"He's just turned fifteen." He said smugly. "And he's taken a self defense class, I'm certain he could take at least one of you down while I call the police."

"Don't you remember? We are the police." Donovan replied, anxious about this child's threat. They were in God knows where, and it was quite possible they weren't in the same time period, if that was even possible.

"Not from here, though." The boy remarked. "We're on the complete opposite side of London as your badge reads."

"Look, whoever you are, we've got to get out of here and contact someone to figure out where we are so we can get back to headquarters and work on our next case, so you'd better tell us where we are, or-" Anderson was cut off by another set of footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Sherlock, you've been down there for a while, are you alri-" an older boy started, but as soon as he saw Lestrade so close to his brother, he froze.

"Get away from him." The older boy growled.

"Sherlock…oh my God, did he just say your name was-" John murmured, stepping closer to the younger Sherlock, even farther than Anderson, and held onto his shoulders.

"_I said get away from him!" _the older boy shouted, and kicked John square in the back. John fell, his ankle twisting slightly underneath him as he fell. Sherlock raced over to his older brother and he embraced him as Sherlock buried his face into his chest.

Lestrade raced over to John, helping him onto the sofa quickly, elevating his ankle. The older boy didn't take his glare off of him the entire time.

Lestrade looked up at the older boy. "Who are you, then? His older brother?" he asked, still wary that the small child was Sherlock, must be Sherlock Holmes by the looks of him and his deductions.

He nodded stiffly. "I'm Mycroft." He murmured. "This is Sherlock, my little brother. He's seven."

Sherlock poked his head out from Mycroft's shirt. "I'm seven and three quarters!" He protested, and Mycroft laughing, ruffling his head.

"Sure, sure…" Mycroft murmured. But suddenly his face turned hard again as he turned to face the rest of the team. "Who are you? And why are you in our basement?"

"Look, we just got lost, alright? We live on the other side of London and we got knocked out. We woke up here. We don't know how." Lestrade said, wording everything carefully while eyeing Sherlock. If he made one mistake, one influence on him, they could end up never meeting. He could change the future right now.

Mycroft frowned, and then murmured, "Our parents are out for the weekend. But don't think you can trick us just because we're kids. I'm assuming Sherlock did some sort of deduction of you already?"

Lestrade nodded. "Look, we can't go anywhere right now until we figure out what's going on, and I think you busted our friend's ankle," he said, gesturing to John. "So I was wondering if we could stay here until your parents come back."

Mycroft looked at the rest of them, and then down at Sherlock. "What do you think?" he asked. "D'you think they're good, or…"

Sherlock looked around, and finally set his eyes on John. John stared at him, remembering his own Sherlock back at home and wondering how much had really changed in that time.

"You're going to decide whether or not we can stay based on a seven year old's deductions?" Anderson protested. "That's complete rubbish!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I thought you said you'd heard his deductions." He muttered.

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, and nodded once. "They're good," he murmured. "All of them. I think…"

Sherlock looked back at John as he finished. "I think they should stay."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Hi! Hopefully I'll be able to update this story once a week or so, it depends on how much schoolwork I have.**

**ALSO, if I ever stop updating this story for several months, that does NOT mean I've given up on it, it just means I either don't know what to write next or I'm too busy to write at the moment. (usually it's a mixture of the two)**

**So yeah **** Enjoy!**

**Review are appreciated 3**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock; otherwise the series would be longer than 3 episodes and they would air every year instead of every two years and yeah (only 1 ½ years or so until the next season woo hoo)**

The first thing the team noticed was that Sherlock and Mycroft were used to being alone. It seemed natural for them to be without parents, like having strangers appear in their house was an ordinary thing. They seemed to know where everything was in the house, not needing to ask each other or even call up their mother to find anything.

Dinner was ready within twenty minutes, but was put off a bit by Sherlock attempting to get the plates. Being merely seven, he wasn't quite tall enough to reach the plates, so he had brought over a small chair to stand on. Sherlock has deduced that even though the chair was a bit wobbly, he would be able to get the plates before it collapsed underneath his weight.

Unfortunately, his deduction was wrong.

Just as Sherlock grabbed a single plate, the chair legs bent and doubled over, efficiently collapsing the entire structure. Sherlock let out a cry of surprise as he lurched backwards, the plate flying through the air as he fell onto the ground.

"What was that?" John asked, finishing his conversation with Mycroft and the rest of the team about their living arrangements.

"Wait, where's Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, looking around the room. "He was here just a minute ago…"

Mycroft paled, and raced out of the room. The rest of the team quickly followed until they reached the kitchen.

Mycroft was helping the younger Holmes boy up, as he was extremely unsteady. "Think I may have bumped my head a little…" he murmured, actively clutching his left hand.

"Sherlock, what's wrong with your hand?" Mycroft asked, unclenching Sherlock's grip on his own. A long cut strayed along his palm, blood seeping out slightly. Mycroft closed his eyes, locking up his frustration. Being angry wouldn't help the situation.

"C'mon, let's go get the first aid kit." Mycroft suggested, helping a wobbly Sherlock along the hallway.

"Bloody hell…" John murmured, bending down to meet Sherlock's eyes as they reached him. "You alright, mate?"

Sherlock nodded. "Just bumped my head." He said with a slight smile, tightening his grip on Mycroft as he grew woozy.

"And you cut you hand when you fell with that plate." Mycroft added, sitting Sherlock down. "You know, you could have asked for some help."

Sherlock shrugged. "You were busy."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and chuckled, forcing himself not to panic. It was obvious the injury wasn't too serious judging by the way Sherlock was acting. He might have been knocked out when he fell, but Mycroft had no way of knowing.

"We might need to take you to see a doctor," Mycroft stated, looking his little brother over.

Sherlock immediately shook his head. "No! No doctor. Don't want…don't want a doctor." He replied, his voice straining a bit as the pounding in his head grew worse.

"I'm a doctor," John stated, stepping closer to Sherlock, but not close enough that Mycroft would try to hurt him. "I could help."

Mycroft looked at him for a moment, slightly dubious about letting a man who had mysteriously appeared in their basement check over Sherlock's medical health. Mycroft wasn't too trained in the area, he could hurt Sherlock and never even know it. But Sherlock needed to be seen, and it was obvious he wasn't going to let any other doctor see him. Plus, Sherlock trusted the man. That should be good enough for him…shouldn't it?

Mycroft sighed. "Alright, alright, go ahead." He stepped aside, allowing John to get close to Sherlock.

John looked deep into Sherlock's eyes; they looked eerily alike to his older counterparts', but they didn't have as much pain in them. He hadn't killed anyone yet. Hadn't seen the crueler parts of the world. It suddenly hit him that he was seeing Sherlock as a child, a completely innocent child.

He quickly bandaged Sherlock's hand, trying to be delicate as he saw Sherlock wince. Then, he reached into his medical bag, and Mycroft froze.

"I'm just going to test your vision a bit, alright?" John asked, holding out his small flashlight. Sherlock nodded at Mycroft, and he relaxed.

John took ahold of the boy's hand, clasping his fingers in Sherlocks'. He realized how small, how young he was.

Sherlock smiled at him slightly, just before John shined the light in his eyes. Sherlock grimaced, closing his eyes momentarily, until John stated, "No, no Sherlock. I need your eyes to be open, okay? Otherwise I won't be able to tell if you've got a concussion."

Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes, squinting a bit to shy away from the light. It hurt, but he had to look at it. He wouldn't get better unless he did.

"Pupils aren't dilated, so no concussion, it seems," John explained. "But he does seem sensitive to light, he's probably got a bad headache."

"I'm right here, you know." Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes.

John looked back at Sherlock. "How is your head, by the way?"

Sherlock sighed. "Hurts."

John nodded. "It's to be expected, with a fall like that. He's little, so I'm not sure how we'd go about giving him pain medication…"

John trailed off, noticing that Sherlock had already fallen asleep, his chest rising and lowering steadily. He grinned, and murmured, "Should we keep him here, or…"

"No, we should probably move him. He's a sound sleeper." Mycroft replied in similar volume.

Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson stood in the back of the room, just as silent as they were throughout the whole procedure. It was awkward, this. Being around the child version of a man you knew in the future, scared to talk to him as you might blurt something out that could change everything. They had decided it might be better not to talk to him at all.

Mycroft maneuvered his arms around Sherlock's small body, cradling him in his arms. His head shifted slightly, and he groaned. Mycroft stopped movement until he seemed to be asleep again, lifting him up so he was against his chest. The team fully noticed now how innocent he was. How small. How vulnerable. How…child-like.

One thing was for sure, they would never be treating Sherlock the same way when they got home.

**Sorry there wasn't too much plot in this chapter, it was more of a fluffy part so the team could get to know Sherlock and Mycroft a bit and develop their character. Next chapter will be a mix of plot and fluff, and then the real fun will begin **

**Reviews are nice. Yes. I think you should click that little review button down there and write your thoughts. (criticism is welcomed, by the way, as are comments and questions and praise and whatever you feel like writing :P)**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Hi! Sorry for the longer wait this time, I've been going through power outages and such from Sandy, and running around figuring out when I'm doing PT, etc. Enjoy!

This might seem a bit choppy/rushed, I was writing this in a hurry.

Also: In chapter 1, there was a line that stated, "Sherlock, mum's getting worried, she asked you to get her sowing kit ages ag-". However, in chapter 2 we discovered that Sherlock and Mycroft were alone in the house. I can't figure out how to go back and edit chapters, so can we pretend that the line says, "Sherlock, you've been down there for a while, are you alright-"? Thanks

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. *heavy sigh*

The next morning, Sherlock awoke with little pain, his headache almost completely gone. His hand had begun to heal rather well according to John, so he was cleared to go out and do what he pleased.

Mycroft was beginning to trust John more as the time went on, probably because he was useful and could treat Sherlock when necessary, but he hadn't warmed up to the others. Therefore, he avoided them as much as possible.

Sherlock, on the other hand, spent his time with each person equally. Certainly, he'd go more in-depth when he talked to John and sat closer to him, as Mycroft trusted him, so he must be good. He'd still try to talk to the others constantly, although Anderson remained silent and as still as a stone when spoken to. Lestrade and Donovan were more cooperative, Lestrade marginally more than Donovan, but she had taken a liking to the younger Sherlock.

Sherlock sat next to Donovan on the couch, his legs dangling over the edge of the couch. "What's your name?" he asked, beaming.

Donovan tried to hide her grin. God, he was cute as a seven year old.

"Sally Donovan." Donovan replied. "And you're Sherlock Holmes, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "Sally…can I call you Sally?"

Donovan let her grin show. The every-day Sherlock rarely called her Sally, in fact, only called her Sally when he was taunting her. Then again, she always called him a freak when she was taunting him…has she ever called him by his first name before now?

As she contemplated this, her grin started to slip, and Sherlock looked at her worriedly. "Did I say something? I said something, didn't I?" he asked, the end of his question more of a muse to himself.

Sally shook her head. "No, no, you just…reminded me of someone I need to apologize to." She murmured, knowing that living with this younger version of Sherlock might open up her eyes to how he became how he was in the future. Because if he was this happy as a child, how did he become the cold-hearted detective she knew him as? Or did she even know him at all?

Sherlock noticed Sally's vibes of guilt coming off of her like waves; the realization crushes him. What had he done to remind her of this friend of hers? Obviously he was a friend, or at least she was beginning to think of him in that way. Otherwise she wouldn't feel so guilty.

Sherlock shrugged and walked off to ask Mycroft a question when he bumped into Lestrade and Anderson. He had been turning a corner when they came around, and he literally bumped into Anderson, right around his waist.

He almost fell backwards, but Lestrade quickly raced forward and helped steady him. Sherlock smiled sheepishly at the pair of them. "Thanks," he murmured, looking pointedly at Lestrade.

Lestrade grinned at Sherlock's expression. It kept striking him how young he was, how long he had until Lestrade would begin to play a role in his life. Lestrade had met him when he was about twenty three, and right after he gave Sherlock his first case and threatened to not give him any more until he had quit his drug habit, Sherlock went to rehab. He couldn't even imagine this child becoming the Sherlock Holmes he knew today.

Lestrade ruffled Sherlock's hair absent-mindedly. "You're welcome. Where are you going?"

"To Mycroft," he replied simply. "I want to go to the park. He always takes me to the park on Sundays."

Anderson's eyebrows furrowed. "You go to the park?" he asked, his tone not as sharp as it would have been if he were talking to the older Sherlock, but still slightly harsh for talking to a seven year old.

Sherlock frowned slightly. "Yes…why do you sound so surprised?"

"Well…you're Sherlock." Anderson replied, and Lestrade tried to warn him off, but Sherlock cut him off.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sherlock questioned, his eyebrows narrowing. It was hard for a seven year old to look angry without looking too adorable, but Sherlock could pull off the paralyzing look.

"Well, back at the Yard, it doesn't seem like anything you would-" Anderson started to say, but Lestrade quickly cut him off with a jab to the ribs. Anderson glared at him, and then whitened as he realized his mistake.

"Wha-" Sherlock began, but Lestrade grimaced and interrupted him.

"We've got to be going, lots of things to do, people to see-" Lestrade answered quickly and walked out of Sherlock's sight, but he still heard his last remark.

"You don't have people to see, you just stay at the house!" Sherlock cried out. Lestrade didn't reply and simply kept walking. Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept walking to meet Mycroft.

Unfortunately, Mycroft was talking with John at the time, and although Sherlock appreciated John and liked having him around, he had been waiting a long time to get to talk with Mycroft- that talk in the hallway was a long time for a seven year old.

"Oh, hey, Sherlock," John remarked as he saw Sherlock sneak into the kitchen near where Mycroft was standing.

Sherlock smiled back and waved slightly, still edging closer to Mycroft. "Mye," Sherlock murmured, reverting to his nickname for Mycroft. "Can we go to the park now? I've been waiting an awful long time."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You have not, you're only five minutes later than usual!" he pointed out, and Sherlock frowned.

"That's still a long time." He grumbled. John grinned at him, the younger Sherlock reminding him about the Sherlock back at home.

"I can go with you," John offered. Sherlock beamed at the prospect, but then looked up at Mycroft.

"Mye?" he asked, looking up at his brother with what John could only describe as "puppy-dog eyes". He never imagined he would see Sherlock do that.

Mycroft sighed. "He can come with us, but I'm just not comfortable having him go alone with you." He replied.

John nodded. "I understand."

Sherlock's face brightened, and he grabbed John's hand and started to lead him out of the kitchen. "C'mon!" he cried out, giggling slightly. "It'll be fun!"

John smiled at Sherlock. The giggling, smiling, happy child…as a child, he'd put his emotions on his sleeve. As an adult, however, Sherlock did anything but that. John could only wonder what had happened in between.

SSSSSSSSSSS

In the basement, someone overheard the conversation between John, Mycroft, and Sherlock. John coming to the park wouldn't help with his plan, especially since the man had military training, but he suspected it wouldn't make too much of a difference. John may have his gun, but the man in the basement had one as well.

As soon as he heard the door close from upstairs, signaling that John, Mycroft, and Sherlock had just left, the man turned off the safety on his gun. As soon as he dealt with the people in the house, he could get to the park. He could get to him.

The man knew he could sneak out of the house un-noticed, but it would be more fun this way. Knowing they hadn't been able to stop him…leaving them with that would been much more fun than just leaving un-noticed.

He started up the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Thanks to IzzyDelta, I fixed the first chapter so new readers won't be confused as to where the mother is, as in the unedited version, she was written in, but in the next chapter, she was completely missing. (speaking of which, she is mentioned in this chapter) (she's actually kind of a big part of this chapter) (but whatever enjoy)**

**Also, from now on, there will be spoilers from The Great Game and a bit of A Scandal In Belgravia. (It'll contain minor details on the "pool incident")**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock **

Anderson stepped out of the bathroom, approaching Donovan and Lestrade. "Where did John and Mycroft go?" he questioned, and after looking around for a moment, he added, "And the little ankle-biter, too, where did he go off to?"

Donovan rolled her eyes at Anderson's new nickname for the younger Sherlock, and replied, "They went out to the park."

"He took John with him?" Anderson asked, surprised. "I knew Sherlock wanted to go to the park, but I didn't think Mycroft would actually take him. I didn't think John would go, either; that is, I didn't think Mycroft would let him go. Have you noticed how protective he is?"

"Every-day Mycroft is even more protective," Lestrade said, sitting down on the couch nearby. "He has cameras in his flat, did you know that? He's even got bodyguards trailing him, but he has to change them every few days because Sherlock always notices them. He usually notices them after the first hour or so, but he doesn't do anything about them until later."

"You're kidding," Anderson scoffed. "Bodyguards?"

Donovan nodded. "Got in a fight with one of them, once." She reminisced. "It was the day I accidentally made the freak have a panic attack; right after that Moriarty fellow met them at the pool." Lestrade grimaced at her use of the nickname 'freak', but didn't take it any further than that.

"I said something about…Westwood, I think, I tried to get him to try a Westwood suit on, but he refused and started freaking out." She continued. "I only found out that that Moriarty guy wore Westwood when the guards stopped me on our way out of the store."

The rest of them fell quiet, remembering Moriarty. After the pool incident, John and Sherlock turned up at the crime scene the next day rattled. John was looking over his shoulder every other second, and Sherlock was trying to console him, but he was still shaken as well, his face had been as white as a ghost. They gave the team only a brief overview on what had happened; Moriarty had put the bomb on John and threatened to kill him unless Sherlock stopped prying, but then decided to kill them for good until a phone call stopped him. Whatever else he had done had shaken up their consulting detective and his doctor.

"Oh, he told you that? How sweet of him to remember." A sickly-sweet voice drawled from the top of the staircase. He had an Irish accent, and the way he spoke seemed to tender, yet crawled underneath your skin at the same time, terrifying you and paralyzing your heart. He walked out of the shadows, holding his hands behind his back. Lestrade only took a moment to confirm that his suit was, in fact, Westwood.

Before Lestrade could form a sentence, the man confirmed his identity. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

John, Mycroft, and Sherlock arrived at the park after only a few minutes of walking. Sherlock pulled on Mycroft's arm, stretching out his sleeves. He let out a giggle that, in John's mind, echoed the older Sherlock's low, bass chuckle.

"What do you want to do, Sherlock?" John asked, ruffling Sherlock's hair. Mycroft breathed a little loudly as he did so, and John backed off slightly, remembering Mycroft's kick to his ankle. It turned out only to be a slight bruise, and he had been only limping slightly, but he knew that if Mycroft wanted to do more damage, he could.

"We could play hide and go seek. That's what Mycroft and I usually do." Sherlock piped up, his voice high and excited.

Mycroft laughed, his own voice beginning to be deep, closer to the Mycroft that John knew. "By hide and go seek, he means he hides, and we try to find him over and over again."

Sherlock grinned sheepishly. "It'll be fun, I promise!"

John nodded. "Alright, let's do it, then! You can go hide, and Mycroft and I will count, okay?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly, and while John and Mycroft turned their backs, he raced off in the other direction in search of a good hiding place.

"So…" John said, trying to clear the air between them. This was only the second time they had been alone together, and the last time they had been alone was when they were talking about how long they could stay. The boy hadn't said anything about his parents returning, and John had been meaning to ask him about them when Sherlock had interrupted. But now, he had plenty of time.

"You have parents, right?" John asked, trying to get to his point sooner rather than later. "I mean, you're not orphans or anything, are you?"

Mycroft looked at him, astonished. Then his face transformed into a very sullen look. "No. I mean, we're not orphans, no. We have parents. They're just…not around much."

John looked at him, his face formed into sympathy. "When was the last time you saw them?"

"Two months." Mycroft whipered.

John looked at him, aghast. "Where do you get the money? Do you have a job, or…?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No, no, we both go to school. They send us checks every week. We get along fine."

Suddenly Mycroft's face turns angry and desperate. "You're not going to the police about it, are you? Your friends- they'll separate us! You can't, you can't tell them, not ever!"

John shook his head. "Of course not. This can stay with us. But, if they knew, they wouldn't separate you. We'd let you stay the way you are." Although John knew that if he could anything about it, he would. But if he told a real, proper policeman from this century, then they'd separate them, and the future wouldn't be the way it is now. Time travel was confusing, John had decided.

Mycroft nodded. "Still…don't tell them. Please."

"Alright, alright. I won't tell them, I swear." John said, shaking Mycroft's hand on it.

Suddenly, they heard a loud scream. A child's scream. Sherlock's scream.

"Get off!" Sherlock cried from far away. "Get away from me!"

Mycroft and John turned around and raced over to where Sherlock was standing, only to see a man holding a gun to his hand, holding Sherlock tightly in his grasp.

Moriarty smiled daringly at them, clicking the safety off of his gun. "Hello, John. Did you miss me?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 **

…**I did it again, didn't I?**

***deep sigh***

**I'm super super sorry that I haven't updated in so long! I ran into a bit of writer's block, and then a whole bunch of medical issues and school issues got in the way of writing. The past week, I've been working on outlining this story and some of my other stories, and I've got basically the whole thing worked out, so the next wait shouldn't be as long.**

**Also, I'm going to try and do that whole "weekly update" thing on a schedule. I'll try to update this story every Wednesday, but I might have them come in earlier or later depending on my schedule. I'm going to try and write a few chapters ahead, that way if I ever get stuck, I'll have something to post for you anyway. **

**If you're reading any of my other multi-chapter stories, DON'T WORRY. They'll all be updated soon. Within the next week or so, I believe. (yes, even the one I haven't updated since April.) I'm going to try and do the whole "weekly update" thing on ALL of my multi-chapter stories. (Speaking of which, I have about six of those now. Although one of those only has one chapter left, so…Yeah. I need to finish some of those soon.) **

**Basically, the moral of the story is that I'm a huge procrastinator. Sorry about that ;)**

**Okay! Now that we've gotten through this monster of an author's note, let's get along to the story! **** I hope you enjoy it!**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock. There's a 99.9999999999% that I will never own Sherlock. (the .0000000001% being if Stephen and Mark decide to randomly give it away to me)**

_Previously:_

_Suddenly, they heard a loud scream. A child's scream. Sherlock's scream._

"_Get off!" Sherlock cried from far away. "Get away from me!"_

_Mycroft and John turned around and raced over to where Sherlock was standing, only to see a man holding a gun to his hand, holding Sherlock tightly in his grasp._

_Moriarty smiled daringly at them, clicking the safety off of his gun. "Hello, John. Did you miss me?"_

_John's heart seemed to stop as he saw Moriarty. Thousands of questions were shooting around in his head, growing louder and louder, demanding to be heard, but he put them off to focus on the gun. Specifically, the gun that's safety was turned off and aimed at Sherlock's head._

_SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS SSSSS_

"Put it down, Moriarty," John ordered, trying to keep his voice calm yet failing. "You don't want to do this."

"I think I do, John." He smirked and put pressure on the handle of the gun, forcing part of the nozzle to dig into Sherlock's neck. A frightened whimper escaped Sherlock's mouth, and Moriarty's smile grew larger.

"Put. That. Gun. Down." Mycroft seethed, his face pale and drawn out, yet still bursting with anger. But right beneath that anger, John could see fear.

"Oh, this must be younger Mycroft! What a doll." Moriarty drawled, his Irish accent showing through. "You must be what, fifteen?"

Suddenly, Moriarty's gaze shifted down towards Sherlock. "Oh, look at how young you are! You must be only seven, the little thing. How adorable…" he murmured, pinching Sherlock's cheek with his extra hand.

"I'm seven and three quarters." Sherlock mumbled under his breath, but he suddenly remembered his position and tensed up.

Moriarty laughed. "How precious! He's still cheeky, even at this age."

Mycroft frowned. "This age? What…what are you talking about?"

"Oh, didn't Johnny-boy here tell you yet? We're from the future. 2010 to be exact. John is Sherlock's best friend. Well, I say friend…" Moriarty drawled, staring off in the distance.

Mycroft was stunned. It was completely impossible, he had decided, but the pieces fit together…everything made sense. Except…

"Who are you, then? And what do you want with my brother?" Mycroft asked, his fists tightening at his side.

Moriarty grinned, his lips drawn like a snake, his eyes so dead yet alive at the same time. "I'm his worst nightmare. And now…Mycroft, John…I'll kill this child and become your worst nightmare as well."

Moriarty tightened his hold on the gun; Sherlock gasped in fear, the terror taking over, the child almost ready to bawl. John stared in terror, unable to do anything but refusing to give up, wracking his brain for ideas to stall him.

Mycroft bellowed, "No!" and ran towards them.

"Mycroft, no!" John screamed, running to try and catch up to him, but it was too late. Moriarty smirked, knowing now that they could try all they want, but the result would still be the same. Trying was futile.

John could see it in his eyes, his dead, dead eyes and his smile that just barely had any life. He was going to destroy them. Destroy Sherlock. And there was nothing they could do.

Sherlock shrieked. A gun went off. All was still.

**Ahhhh I'm sorry this was so short! And sorry for the cliffie, haha ;) But I'm already in the process of writing the next chapter, so it should definitely be up on Wednesday. (In EST time, by the way) The next chapter will definitely be a lot longer, the cliffhanger should be resolved (although there might be a new one to take its place :P), and you'll finally get a few explanations. **

**Okay! See you next week! **


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

…**I did it again, didn't I?**

**I'M SORRY. I didn't mean for it to take this long to write this chapter. Real life got in the way, and I haven't had any time to write. I'm going to be updating this once a week now, though (possibly more if I'm able to). I'm putting the rest of my stories on hold because I'm writing so many multi-chapter stories at the moment :P **

**I also changed a lot of the rest of the plot for this story, so there will be little arcs with Anderson and Lestrade (a bigger one for Lestrade) and no official arcs for Sally or John but they're still pretty important in the story.**

**Okay. Without further ado, the long-awaited chapter 6!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. *sobs***

John fell to the ground, breathing heavily, the world seeming to fall apart in front of him. Moriarty just shot Sherlock, didn't he? What was going to happen now? Would time change? Would Sherlock…make it out?

He heard voices shouting, screaming his name, a child's voice…Sherlock's voice.

John's head snapped up, and he then saw Moriarty lying on the ground, deathly still. Sherlock was screaming his head off, the red blood spattered slightly on his forehead. He watched and Lestrade picked him up, shushing him and caressing his curled locks of hair whilst attempting to soften his sobs.

Lestrade shot Moriarty. Sherlock was okay. He was…he was _okay!_

John looked back and saw Mycroft kneeling on the ground, his head bowed. He stood up and walked to him, putting his hand on his shoulder. "Mycroft, it's okay. Sherlock's alright."

Mycroft looked up at him, his eyes glossed over. _He seems out of it,_ John noticed. He shook his shoulder again. "Mycroft, it's okay. You can get up now. Don't you want to see Sherlock?"

Everything seemed to get deathly still. Lestrade looked over at them, and even Sherlock put his cries down to whimpers to gaze at Mycroft. The world seemed to take a collective gasp as Mycroft removed his hand from his chest and revealed blood dripping from him.

Sherlock screamed and fought to get out of Lestrade's arms. "You hurt him! You hurt my brother!You were supposed to hit Moriarty! _You hurt my brother!_"

His screams became almost hysterical, and Lestrade had to fight to hold onto him. "John," Lestrade gasped. "Help me."

"Mycroft needs medical attention." John seethed, taking his scarf off and wrapping it around Mycroft's chest, lessening the blood flow.

"I've called an ambulance, they'll be here in a minute. I can watch over him. But you need to _get Sherlock home. _He's gonna hurt himself if he stays here." Lestrade begged.

John looked back at Mycroft. There wasn't much else he could do without medical supplies besides keep him awake long enough for the paramedics to get to him…but something felt wrong to leave him like this.

He then turned his attention to Sherlock, struggling in Lestrade's grasp. He was fighting hard to keep Sherlock in his arms, sustaining bites and clawing from the child's fingernails. Lestrade could keep him awake, right?

John sighed. "Keep him awake. Whatever you do, don't let him lose consciousness."

Lestrade nodded, and John looked intently at Sherlock. "Look, Sherlock, we need to go home-"

"_No! _Not without Mycroft! And certainly not with you! I…I _trusted _you!" Sherlock cried, punching Lestrade hard in the chest in an attempt to get out of his grip. Lestrade gasped in pain, but only held the child tighter.

Lestrade handed Sherlock to John, who held him tightly in his arms. "_No!" _Sherlock screamed, and began to try to fight his way out of John's grip. It broke his heart to keep this child- no, not just this child, _Sherlock- _away from his brother in a time of need, but he couldn't risk either of them getting hurt.

"Donovan," Lestrade called sharply, and Sally broke through the nearby bushes. "You need to get Moriarty back to the house. Restrain him well. When he wakes up, interrogate him. We need to know how he got here and what his plan was; he might be able to bring us back."

She nodded, and was momentarily distracted by Sherlock's screams. Hearing them from the bushes was enough, but seeing the child who was once a grown man scream and cry and thrash out for his brother? It was hard to take in.

Donovan slowly carried Moriarty into the car, restraining his hands. She wrapped up his own less severe gun wound and put him in the trunk, not wanting to frighten Sherlock any more than he was already, as he would be in the back seat with John.

John, holding the kicking child, stepped cautiously into the back. Sherlock continued to fight him every step of the way, kicking and punching, biting and scratching, screaming and sobbing for his brother. "Mycroft! Mycroft, don't let them take me! _Mycroft, please!_"

Sally bit her lip, and then stepping into the front seat, starting the car. Sherlock's screams slowly developed into sobs, and Sherlock wept on John's chest as John ran his fingers through his hair, trying to calm him down. He cried his brother's name with his broken voice, the voice of a haunted child. He continued until he fell asleep in John's arms, exhausted from the crying, exhausted from the trauma, and not wanting to face the day any longer.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

John laid the sleeping form of Sherlock on his bed, tucking him underneath the covers. He brushed the boys' hair back and found a small patch of Moriarty's dried blood. He shook his head, knowing that this shouldn't have happened. If it weren't for them, Sherlock could be with his brother right now, enjoying being young. _No child should ever go through this_, John thought. _Not ever. But now, Sherlock has._

He walked out of the room slowly and closed the door. Lestrade was facing him, his arms crossed, looking down solemnly.

John stared at him, shaking his head. "Tell me he made it through."

Lestrade only stared blankly at the ground.

"Lestrade, _tell me he's going to make it._" John ordered, stepping closer to the DI, close enough that their faces were mere inches away from each other.

Lestrade looked up, his eyes staring directly into John's. "John…John, I'm sorry…"

John shook his head again. "No, no, he's got to be alive. That kid in there needs a brother. Sherlock _needs _Mycroft."

"I know, John. Trust me. But…that doesn't change the truth." Lestrade whispered, his eyes beginning to glisten. "John…Mycroft didn't make it."

John whipped his head around as he heard a cup drop. He saw Sherlock standing there, eyes red and puffy, shock clearly on his face. He shook his head, his eyes wide. "No…no, you're lying, he's not dead!"

"Sherlock-" John began, but Sherlock took off, getting to the door and wrenching it open. He raced out into the rain, and John tore after him, screaming his name. "Sherlock! Sherlock, wait, let me explain!"

Sally briskly walked outside, getting into her car. "What the hell are you doing? Sherlock just ran off, we need to go after him!" Lestrade cried, following her all of the way to her car.

"I'm going to find him. I'll be much faster in the car. You need to stay with Anderson, make sure Moriarty doesn't wake up and trick him into letting him go." Sally ordered, buckling her seat belt.

"Oi, who's the Detective Inspector here?" Lestrade said angrily. "I should go out and find him."

"No offense, _sir, _but Sherlock won't go anywhere near you. Not since you killed his brother, accident or not." Donovan replied, starting the car. "I'll find him. Go be with Anderson."

Lestrade nodded and walked back inside. Sally pressed her gas pedal, heading in the direction Sherlock had gone. Somewhere in the forest, rain mixed with Sherlock's tears as he thought of his brother, and his brother alone. John continued to run, faster than he ever had before, even though it was on a weak ankle that Mycroft himself had inflicted the injury upon.

And deep in the basement, Moriarty chuckled as Anderson stepped nearer to him, untying his bonds and letting him go.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Hi! Sorry for the delay, I meant to write this on Friday, but my family and I went to a play, and on Saturday my cousins and my grandmother came over so I wasn't able to write then, either. But the important this is that it's done now! **** I hope you like it. It's a little longer than usual, because it was either make this into two short chapters, or make it into one long chapter, so I figured you would like having one long chapter instead :P**

**(Also, I'm going to start replying to reviews via PM now, because I realized I haven't been doing that, so if you submit a review as of now, I'll get back to you as soon as possible **** Thanks for reading!)**

**I also refer to Sally Donovan as both Sally and Donovan (Sally more often than not) in this chapter. Sorry if it gets a bit confusing!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. *sobs* *there are so many tears that the Earth turns into pure water* *tears float into space and drown the universe***

Minutes passed. John and Sherlock continued running, and although Sherlock was much smaller, and therefore slower, he was able to maneuver around various trees and duck under branches, whilst John was hit by oncoming branches, and he also had to run around on an injured ankle.

Nonetheless, John was catching up, sooner rather than later. Sherlock was almost within reach, and John jumped, grasping Sherlock's leg and pulling the child into his chest.

"No! Get…off me!" Sherlock shrieked, and he kicked John square in the shoulder, exactly where he had been shot before in Afghanistan. Whether he hit him there because he deduced he was shot in the shoulder or if it was a lucky hit, John would never know. His vision blacked out for a moment, and when he came to, Sherlock was gone.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sally continued to drive, pushing the gas pedal harder every second as she thought of the little boy running around. Lost. Alone.

Sally's eyes widened as she saw a tall figure run into the middle of the street, and she slammed down on the breaks, the tires screeching against the road. She stopped mere inches away from the figure, and she raced out of the car to give the person a piece of her mind. She grabbed her flashlight and stepped out of her vehicle, crying, "Oi! You can't run around like that, I almost hit you!"

She shined the flashlight on the figure, and he raised a hand up to his eyes. Sally gasped when she saw it was John. "Did you find him?" she asked hopefully, looking him up and down to see his torn clothes, as well as scratches and scrapes from the branches littering his figure.

John shook his head. "I almost did…but he got away." He ran his fingers through his hair for a moment, gathering his thoughts as Sally sighed, and then he said, "We should keep looking."

Donovan agreed, and then gestured to the passenger side door. "Do you want to come with me?" She asked, looking at John with pity. The poor man had been searching for quite a while, and had obviously been injured, although she couldn't tell where, underneath all of the scrapes and scratches.

John nodded and strapped himself into the seat silently. Sally stepped into the car, pushed the gas pedal, and began driving into the night.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Almost an entire hour of worried searching passed before John suggested that they check the park. Donovan was skeptical, but she eventually agreed.

When they arrived, John nearly jumped out of his seat, screaming Sherlock's name hopelessly in the dark. The name seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness, just as the little boy. Minutes passed, minutes that seemed to John like hours, until Sally put her hand on his shoulder and suggested that they go home.

John immediately shook his head. "I'm not leaving without him." He snapped, and then continued to call out Sherlock's name.

"We've been searching for hours," Sally replied. "and he hasn't shown up. He might have gone home already."

"Lestrade would have called." John said, his voice beginning to crack at the hopelessness of their situation.

"Then he'll come home. He won't stay out here forever." Sally pointed out. "We've searched everywhere. He's not here, John."

"He _won't _come home, because his brother is _dead._" John seethed, turning around the face Donovan, anger written clearly on his face. "He thinks there's no one left he can trust. Lestrade was the one who shot him, for god's sake! And if we're friends with him, well, then, he's obviously reconsidering his earlier decision to trust us. He's out there, alone, cold, and in the dark. He _needs _someone, Sally….he needs us."

Sally looked shocked at the beginning of John's outburst, but her gaze finally softened and she nodded. "We will find him. I promise. Alright?"

The rain continued to land on their faces as they stared at each other, each one analyzing the other. They had only one person to connect them; Sherlock. Now they were both driven together to find him. But, the question was…could they trust each other?

John looked away. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay. Let's…let's just keep looking."

Suddenly, they both heard a hitch in someone's breath, and something that sounded like…sobbing? Their heads snapped towards the direction of the sound, and they saw the small, huddled up figure of Sherlock sitting on the ground, nearly concealed in the bushes. He traced his finger in the stained, bloodied mud…Mycroft's blood.

Donovan walked up to him, and her calm, kind eyes met Sherlock's. She looked into him and saw fear, loss, and…loneliness. The same loneliness she would see for just a few seconds in her Sherlock's eyes, the Sherlock she knew…it would flicker, every time she would call him a freak, or someone would insult him. She never recognized the emotion on him before, but when written in the eyes of a child, it became instantly clear.

She stroked his hair slightly for a moment, brushing away some of the blood that was still dried on his face, yet loosened up from the rain. "Come on," she murmured, taking hold of his hand. "Let's go home."

Sherlock's breath hitched, and he looked back down at the blood. It was beginning to be washed away by the rain, and little by little, the blood ran down in a stream of water, cleansing the ground. Soon, it was completely clean. Sherlock looked back up at Donovan, and she saw tears racing down his cheeks. As he began to sob once more, she pulled him into her chest and held him, quieting him lovingly.

"Shh, it's okay, you're going to be alright…I promise. I won't let anyone hurt you." She whispered, and after a few moment, Sherlock looked up at her through the raindrops, both of the sopping wet, and he smiled just slightly.

"I think…" he whispered, taking her hand. "I think I'm ready to go home."

Sally smiled, her eyes glittering slightly at the risk of joyous tears. "Me too, Sherlock. Me too."

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

They drove back quickly, all of them (but especially Sherlock) drenched. He shivered slightly, and John gave him his jacket for the ride back, to hopefully keep him warm until they could change into new clothes.

Donovan didn't know what to expect when she opened up the door. But she certainly didn't expect to see Lestrade laying on the ground, unconscious, and Anderson holding a gun to his head.

"Anderson…" Donovan whispered. "Put the gun down. Now." She slowly put her hand in her own pocket, going to draw out her own gun, but Anderson turned the gun on her and clicked off the safety.

"Make one more move towards that gun in your pocket, and I'll kill you." He whispered venomously.

John strode in, holding Sherlock's hand and smiling. That smile dropped as he saw the situation.

"Anderson, what the hell…" John started, and Sherlock gasped, hiding behind John's leg.

"Close that door." Anderson ordered, pointing his gun at John now. His hand were shaking, and his true nervousness began to leak through. John stood stock still, and Anderson screamed, "No one is going anywhere! So _shut that door!_"

John complied quickly, and Sherlock buried his face in his leg, his little form shaking. He had already handled so much today, and now this was happening? It was too much for him to handle.

"Anderson, put the gun down." Sally repeated. She looked up as the lights began to flicker slightly, but paid no less attention to the gun in Anderson's hand.

"N-no! I want…that _brat…_" Anderson seethed, pointing his gun at Sherlock now, "to pay for what he's done!"

"He hasn't done anything!" John cried out, putting himself directly in the way of Anderson and Sherlock.

"Not yet," Anderson whispered. "But he will. He'll grow up and, and…ruin _everything!_ My marriage, my career…with this one bullet, I can change all of that." He started laughing, chuckling nervously. "I can kill him. Right now, I can kill him, and none of you can stop me."

Both Donovan and John made a move for their guns, but before they could get them, Anderson shrieked, "_Don't move!_"

They stopped, seeing his hands continue to shake, yet firmly begin to press on the trigger. "If you move, I'll kill him. I swear, I'll _kill _that little freak!"

"Anderson, stop it." Donovan said firmly. "You don't know what you're doing. If you mess up this timestream, you could-"

"Who cares about the bloody timestream?! Mycroft is already dead! It's as messed up as it can get!" Anderson cried, and the lights continued to flicker.

"Listen to me." Donovan continued. "If you kill anyone tonight, you're going to regret it. I will personally make sure that the bullet in my gun buries itself deeply into your skull. Is that clear?"

Anderson snarled and turned his gun on Sally, only to see that she had already grabbed her gun out of her jacket and was holding it next to him. "Do you want to test me?" Sally whispered, pressing it slightly into his forehead.

Anderson suddenly grew white as he saw the lights begin to flicker, faster and faster. "No…no, I did what you asked! I wasn't…I wasn't going to kill him! I was…" he seemed to be talking to thin air. He backed up into a wall and dropped his gun. "Please, please…no, stop! _Stop!_" he fired his gun at random, and everyone dodged the bullet as they embedded themselves into the wall.

The lights turned off completely for a few second after a strike of lightning, and when they flickered on again, Anderson was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Hi, guys! Sorry I didn't update last week; finals are coming up, so our teachers are trying to do a last-minute-here-have-a-whole-3-new-chapters-in-th e-span-of-2-weeks kind of thing. Updates might be a bit scarce until the end of the 1****st**** week of June. After that, I'll try and write a few more chapters before I go away to a summer camp for another three weeks (it starts near the end of June, so hopefully I'll be able to get in around 5 chapters or so if I do 1-2 a week). I'll come back in mid-July, and after that I'll have plenty of free time to write. I'll probably finish this story up by the end of July. **

**Anyways, sorry about leaving you with the cliffhanger and everything. You get another one at the end of this chapter, too. Sorry about that :P **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

_Previously:_

_Anderson suddenly grew white as he saw the lights begin to flicker, faster and faster. "No…no, I did what you asked! I wasn't…I wasn't going to kill him! I was…" he seemed to be talking to thin air. He backed up into a wall and dropped his gun. "Please, please…no, stop! Stop!" he fired his gun at random, and everyone dodged the bullet as they embedded themselves into the wall._

_The lights turned off completely for a few second after a strike of lightning, and when they flickered on again, Anderson was gone._

For a while, the only thing that they can hear is silence. Complete and utter shock takes over their brains as they attempt to process what had happened.

Sally is the first one to speak. "What...what exactly just happened?" she asks, her voice cracking halfway through her sentence.

John ignores her momentarily and first sits down on the ground next to Lestrade, putting his fingers against his neck. He sighs with relief a few moments later, and he says, "There's a pulse. It's not strong, but it's there." John moves Lestrade onto the couch and cautiously probes his head for a wound. Sally comes up from behind him, holding his first aid kit.

"Thought you might need this." She says, smiling slightly as their eyes meets. He nods thanks and takes it, quickly disinfecting the wound and wrapping part of Lestrade's head lightly in bandages. Suddenly, he looks back at Sherlock, who seems to be scanning the room.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John steps away from Lestrade, looking at Sally who gives him a look and nudges him towards Sherlock.

Sherlock nods. "I…I'm fine. But where…?" The second part of his sentence seems to be to himself as he steps away from John, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for any sign of where Anderson could possibly have gone.

"He's not here, Sherlock." John whispers, remembering how young this version is, how little he's seen of the world. These past two days must have been hard on him, what with Mycroft…his brother, John corrects in his mind, passing away. He might be close to his breaking point.

"That's impossible." Sherlock replies softly, continuing to scan the room.

John chuckles as he remembers their conversation from Baskerville. "Whatever remains, no matter how impossible, must be true." John says, quoting Sherlock in their conversation.

"But…people don't just vanish. It doesn't happen. At least, it doesn't happen here- is this something that happens often in your time?" Sherlock responds, looking back at John, slightly concerned for John's well-being if he came from a time like that.

John shakes his head and whispers, "No…no, it doesn't happen that often."

Suddenly, something catches Sherlock's eye, and he bolts forward. He stood where Anderson had originally stood, when they first walked in, and said, "He was here first…then, the lights spooked him out, and he started shooting…but he shot the wall, a little higher…he wasn't aiming for us, he was aiming for something else!"

Sherlock looked up to where Anderson must have been shooting, and John did, as well. What they saw was an empty window.

"Someone must have come in the window, spooked him by controlling the lights, and he tried to shoot the person. The lights must have been some sort of signal, something to say 'You messed up, we're going to get you'. That's what he was saying when he was backing up, right? He said he had done what they asked, and he wasn't going to kill- kill me." Sherlock faltered slightly when the mention of killing him came up.

He continued quickly after that, his eyes sparkling as his brain worked out the problem. "He stepped back…but that was his mistake." Sherlock steps back, but suddenly realizes his mistake as a trap door below him opens and sends him falling down.

"Sherlock!" John cries, and as Sally steps forward to help him, he stops her. "Lestrade needs you. You need to stay here in case he wakes up. I can take care of Sherlock." John explains as he sees the worried look on Sally's face. She nods, and he kneels down, jumping down the trap door as well.

**Sorry it's so short **** I have a lot to do this weekend, but I'll try and write a bonus chapter on Sunday, so it'll be like I wrote one, long chapter :P **


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Sorry I didn't make the extra update like I said I would, I didn't know that my cousin was graduating, so I was at his house the rest of the weekend. I made this chapter closer to normal length/a little longer to make it up to you, though. NO PROMISES, but I might try and post a short bonus chapter on Sunday or Monday. It depends on how much time I get.**

**I hope you enjoy it! **** (Also, you know how I said sorry about the cliffhanger from my last update? Yeah. There's another one. Sorry 'bout that. There probably won't be an update without a cliffhanger ever)**

**Also, sorry this is a bit rushed. And the language/grammar is a bit awkward. This scene was improvised, and the set was really hard to get my head around.**

**Disclaimer: Unless Stephen and Mark and the ghost of Canon Doyle suddenly fly into my house holding the ownership of Sherlock in their hand, then no, I don't own Sherlock. **

Falling. That was what John was feeling. A short sensation of flight, and then the realization of the impending hit against the ground, leading to the panicky and distressed falling. It wasn't long before he hit the ground, his back hitting what seemed to be concrete, knocking the wind out of him. _It must have been a short fall_, John thought as he regained his breath, gasping and choking slightly. Otherwise, he'd probably be dead by now.

He stood, still gasping slightly. "Sherlock?" he called out, standing on shaky legs. "Sherlock, c'mon, it's me, John!"

Suddenly, John saw a black figure move behind him. He turned around quickly, his hands drawing nearer and nearer to his gun every second. "Look, whoever you are…come out now."

A door slammed behind him, and John turned around once more, drawing his gun out. "I'm not scared of you." He held his gun steadily, even though a part of him screamed to get out of there while he still had a chance. But he shook his head and muttered, "Gotta find Sherlock first. Get Sherlock, get out. Get Sherlock, get out." He stepped forward, heading down the tunnel, keeping his gun out and in a defensive position.

A suddenly childlike screech reverberated through the tunnel, coming from nearby. "Sherlock?!" John cried, looking around hopelessly for any sight of him. He saw an opening nearby, and he ran through it, opening up to a large, circular room still all seemingly made of rock like the tunnel he had left behind him. Several other openings in the walls of the room made themselves apparent to him as he continued turning around, looking for Sherlock.

He was about to pick one at random and run through it when he saw the small, huddled up form of Sherlock sitting on the ground. "Sherlock," John whispered with relief as he bent down to meet him. He had his head buried between his knees, bushels of his curly hair peeking out. John could hear him trying to stifle slight sobs, and he drew closer to him, encasing him in a hug.

"Hey, hey, Sherlock, it's okay now…" John murmured, running his fingers through the child's hair. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, and John held the thin figure with his extra hand, pushing him even further into his chest.

"I-I couldn't find you," Sherlock whimpered, looking up at John just long enough for him to see tears streaming down the child's face. "I heard things…g-got scared…hid in here." Sherlock shuddered slightly and buried his face into John's chest, holding the large man significantly tighter.

"I'm here now, alright? I promise, I'm not going to leave you." John replied in a soft tone, holding Sherlock firmly in his arms as though he would disappear any moment.

"Someone else was here. I saw it…like a shadow…" Sherlock whispered, his voice close to breaking.

John nodded, resting his chin on Sherlock's head. "I saw it, too. Thought it was going to get us or something…"

They stayed there for a short while, just until Sherlock had regained his composure and his tears turned to the occasional sniffle. "Come on," John whispered. "Let's go. Lestrade and Donovan are probably getting worried about us."

Sherlock nodded, releasing John from his grip- excluding his hand. John squeezed it, and Sherlock smiled, his eyes drying.

"John? John!" Lestrade's voice called out.

"Over here!" John replied, loud enough for them to be able to hear.

Lestrade raced through the clearing, Donovan a few steps behind him, an apologetic look written on her face. Lestrade was obviously not well. The gash on his head, although it was no longer actively bleeding, was red and open, Lestrade having ripped off the bandages whilst running to find them. He was wobbly on his feet, and he probably had a concussion. His eyes looked around the clearing wildly until he spotted them.

He sighed, relieved. "Jesus, John, you scared us!"

"Greg, what the hell are you doing up? You've probably got a concussion. You need to go back upstairs and rest." John scolded, occasionally looking back at Sally angrily.

Suddenly, John felt Sherlock move closer to him, leaning into his leg. "You okay, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice soft and calming, drastically different from the tone he used with Lestrade.

"F-fine." Sherlock whispered, warily eyeing Lestrade.

John looked back at Greg, who could see the looks on Sherlock's face. His face was guilt-ridden, and the bags underneath his eyes suddenly seemed to stand out. Everyone had focused on how the death of Mycroft had effected Sherlock…but no one even bothered to think that killing someone, let alone Sherlock's brother and his own friend from the past, would have a negative effect on Lestrade.

"Let's just go," Lestrade said, his voice sounding heavy.

All of a sudden, the lights began to flicker. Sherlock gasped, and held tightly onto John for fear that either of them might be taken away.

"Everyone, stay together!" Lestrade cried. There was a flurry of panicked movement, everyone trying to get close, but there was no time at all before the shadow struck.

Sherlock went to go tighten his arm around John's hand, but shrieked as he felt John's finger slip through his own. The lights flickered back on, and empty space and silence enveloped where John had once stood.


End file.
